


Fire in a Flask

by amyfortuna



Series: 2015 Season of Kink Card 2 [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Auto-Sodomy, Double Anal Penetration, Exhibitionism, First Time, Half-Sibling Incest, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Negotiations, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Premature Ejaculation, Rimming, Sex Pollen, Switching, self-fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-16 16:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5832067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a journey into the dark woods of Yavanna's experiments, Fëanor and Fingolfin thoroughly ruin a blanket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire in a Flask

**Author's Note:**

> This fulfils my Season of Kink squares for Consent Play/Negotiation and Exhibitionism/Exposure.
> 
> The title is lovingly borrowed from Panic! At The Disco's song [Hurricane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1uSHILSLMqE).

"Make haste, Nolo!" Fëanor's voice was impatient, and he jerked at Fingolfin's arm as if that could get him to walk more quickly. Fingolfin stumbled slightly and let out a cry, more alarmed than hurt, and Fëanor dropped his hand from Fingolfin's elbow but carried on walking just as fast. 

They were deep in the woods, far away from anyone. Fëanor had been told to take his younger brother along on this trip, and was clearly rather unhappy about it. Fingolfin was only a little happier. He was with the brother he adored and looked up to, but it was clear that the feeling wasn't mutual; Fëanor merely tolerated him and sometimes hardly even that. He'd been nearly forgotten or left behind along the way more than once, and though he was in his fifties, young and naive but fully of age, he didn't particularly like his chances of comfort and safety in the deep woods of Valinor, where few even of the Maiar could be found. 

Fëanor, twenty years older, but with, it seemed, much more than twenty years' worth of additional experience, was not the most relaxed travelling companion Fingolfin had ever been with. Fëanor usually preferred to explore the land of Aman with Nerdanel, but Nerdanel was absorbed in both her work and their two children at the moment, and could not accompany him. And Maedhros, in his late twenties, was still a little too young to go with his father on this journey, which could not be put off, as Fëanor needed a plant which only grew deep in the dark woods, where Yavanna's more experimental creations grew and flourished in wild and strange ways. 

The particular plant they were hunting for glowed in the dark, and it was that property which Fëanor wished to investigate. He felt it was possible to make lamps by enclosing bioluminescence in a crystal formation, and, true to his nature, could not wait even a year to test his theory but insisted upon making this journey immediately. 

Finwë had requested at first that Fingolfin accompany him, perhaps thinking to encourage his sons to bond more closely, and had to come near to commanding it before Fëanor agreed. Fingolfin was not so enamoured of the prospect of spending time with his brother to fail to understand that Fëanor did not want him along. The journey up to now had been filled with a series of half-rambling lectures from Fëanor on subjects Fingolfin knew little about and cared less for, everything from detailed explanations of the intricacies of smithwork and gemcraft to the linguistic differences between Quenya and Telerin. He'd taken to going silent whenever Fëanor got started, responding to him with brusque verbal nods whenever he paused. 

And yet, Fëanor was so beautiful in his passionate speech, eyes aflame with delight at his own wit and wisdom, that Fingolfin could not quite keep himself neutral and detached. More than once he'd caught himself looking at the way Fëanor's hands moved as he spoke, or thrills had run down his spine at the light in Fëanor's eyes. Fëanor was breathtaking, spellbinding, and Fingolfin's whole body responded to his brother's words and the nearness of him. 

"We must be nearly there," Fëanor said, pausing and looking into an expanse of woodland so dark and deep that the forest they were emerging from seemed to be nearly a meadow beside it. They had left their horses behind on the plains a day ago, and tramped through Telperion's light without rest. Now Laurelin shone at her zenith, but hardly seemed to penetrate the deep fastness of this wood. 

All was dim and quiet as they stepped inside, weaving through the trees, across thousands of years' worth of bracken ground down into the earth. No grass grew, but Fingolfin saw rich black soil at the roots of the trees, where the leaves tended to fall more lightly. Mushrooms and other fungi of various kinds rose from the damp earth, and here and there other plants, strange and twisted in shape, poked their way up into the trees. Clinging vines tangled around many of the trees, and a green moss grew on nearly every tree, on the side nearest the Two Trees, very far away and distant now. 

Fëanor looked about curiously, stepping close to inspect any large plants he saw. "There's too much light now to fully see the luminous properties of these plants," he said at last. "We may as well rest." 

Fingolfin sighed with relief. Looking around, he found a large fallen tree trunk nearby and settled down on it, removing the pack he carried from his shoulders along with his cloak and setting them down as well. But Fëanor, contrary to his words, was restless, continuing to hunt about, roving ever deeper into the dark woods, until at last he was out of sight. 

Closing his eyes, Fingolfin allowed himself to enjoy the silence. The scent of damp earth and leaves rose all about him. Overhead, he could hear a squirrel scampering, and far away he could hear birds singing faintly. He tipped his head back and felt a soft breeze tangle through his hair and whisper over his face. This was bliss. 

After some time, Fingolfin was startled out of his reverie by a loud and explosive sneeze in the distance. The birds near it scattered, squawking, as it was followed by another and another, progressively getting nearer. Fingolfin opened his eyes, sighing loudly, and waited for Fëanor's return. 

He approached slowly, stopping every few paces to sneeze again. He looked miserable, more so than Fingolfin had ever seen him. 

Fingolfin gave Fëanor a quizzical look, and Fëanor sank down next to him on the fallen log, plainly ill at ease. "I was looking at a large plant, but when I bent down to inspect it, it exploded in my face. Some of its pollen got on me. I think I've brushed it all off, but it is having strange effects." He was frowning, sniffling a little, and appeared distressed. Fingolfin simply nodded in understanding and sat with him for a little while, keeping a careful eye on him. 

A fine sweat began to break out over Fëanor's face, and he was warm when Fingolfin laid a hand to his brow. The sneezing seemed to have stopped, but the pollen seemed to be just starting to take effect. 

"I think I need to lie down," Fëanor said after a moment, a breathless urgency in his voice that Fingolfin could not overlook. He reached for his pack, next to the log beside him, and pulled out a woven blanket, glancing around for a good place to lay it down. There was a clear patch of grass, a small break in the trees, just a few steps away behind them, and Fingolfin laid it there, then went back to Fëanor, who was still sitting on the log, hunched over a little, his hands on his knees. 

When Fingolfin took Fëanor's hand to raise him up, it was clammy with sweat, so much so that Fingolfin's fingers nearly slipped. When he stood, it was immediately apparent why he had been bent over - he was hard, the bulge of his cock clearly showing through his trousers. 

Fingolfin went hot all over, and forced himself to glance away, to pretend that this was nothing at all, that he was simply taking care of a distressed and ill brother. Fëanor allowed him to lead him to the blanket, and once there, settled down on it, quietly miserable, and Fingolfin reflected that he must be very miserable indeed if he'd stopped talking. Nevertheless, he sat down with him, having made sure to leave his pack and Fëanor's next to the blanket within easy reach. There was another blanket in Fëanor's pack but he would wait until it was needed before bringing it out. 

"My clothes are too hot," Fëanor muttered after a moment, half under his breath, and started by removing his tunic. Fingolfin picked it up, folded it carefully and put it to one side, mainly to occupy his hands and have an excuse to look away from Fëanor. This sight was not new, and Fingolfin knew well how it stirred him to see the well-defined muscles and the smooth broad expanse of his chest in the light. He kept his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. 

Fëanor's boots followed, tugged off one by one, and finally his trousers. Naked, Fëanor sank back into the blanket with a sigh of relief, lying on his side, facing away from Fingolfin. His skin was flushed. When Fingolfin accidentally brushed against him while reaching for a boot, Fëanor let out a soft cry, almost a whimper or a moan, and Fingolfin jerked his hand back. 

"Please don't stop," Fëanor said, breathless, "don't stop touching me. I want..." His voice was higher than usual and breathier, and Fingolfin could see that he was clearly touching himself, a hand at his cock as though he could not prevent himself, pumping up and down in a steady, familiar motion. 

"I shouldn't," Fingolfin said, half to himself. He glanced around into the trees, as if someone would appear at that very moment to condemn him. Tentatively, he reached out, letting his fingers trail over Fëanor's shoulder. 

The reaction he got was unexpected - Fëanor cried out loudly, as though the touch made him desperate, then thrust his hips frantically twice and came over his own hand. Fingolfin could see the white jets of his seed spilling out onto his skin and had to bite back a soft noise of his own, letting his eyes flutter shut to avoid the sight that he wanted to see more than anything else. 

After a moment he opened them again. Fëanor, a bit more relaxed, had rolled onto his back, displaying himself without care. "That's better," he said, wiping his hand off on his thigh. "There's a running stream somewhere around here, so I'll bathe in a moment..." He trailed off, eyebrows knitting together worriedly. "Oh." His cock was rising again as though he had not just come. 

He brought his hand back to his cock, but shook his head. Fingolfin was unable to tear his eyes away. "I need more than this," Fëanor breathed. "I need..." He turned his head, looking Fingolfin in the face. Fingolfin could not resist the blush rising to his face and noticed that Fëanor too, was blushing. "I need salve or oil, something viscous," Fëanor said. 

With shaking hands, Fingolfin delved through his pack until he found his small pot of hand salve. The smell of it was of chamomile, oakwood, and nettles along with a faint hint of peppermint, not a romantic scent, but a refreshing one. Fingolfin handed it to Fëanor without further ado, trying not to look at him. "We should not be -" he began, but then paused. "Do you want me to go away?" 

"No," Fëanor said bluntly, as if he had never considered such a thing, and then "Thank you," as he took the pot from him, failing to suppress a small gasp when their fingers brushed. 

Raising his knees up and bracing himself with his feet, Fëanor, after scooping a little of the near-solid salve into his hand and setting the pot aside, pressed the hand between his legs. From the slick sounds his hand was making and from the way his eyes fluttered shut now and again in bliss, it was obvious what he was doing. And yet the moans he was making sounded more frustrated than fulfilled, high keening noises that betokened desperation. His other hand was moving over his cock, and Fingolfin had given up all pretence of turning away and was simply staring, open-mouthed. 

Fëanor's cock was a beautiful one; not so different from his own in size, much as they were themselves in height and frame. It was redder than his own, darker against the paler skin of Fëanor's thighs. Fingolfin could not see his balls but was sure they too would be darker than his own. He was beginning to react to the sounds Fëanor was making, to the sight of him rubbing himself in that way. Even closing his eyes could not block out the slow simmering of his arousal. 

With a loud cry, Fëanor came again, painting his stomach with seed. Fingolfin swallowed, repressing the urge to lean forward and lick it from him. 

After a moment of panting breathlessly, Fëanor shook his head. His erection had only diminished a little. His fingers were still between his legs, and, Fingolfin assumed, inside himself. Fëanor slowly began to move them again, then looked speculatively at his own cock. 

"I wonder if I could?" he asked, barely audible, and definitely to himself. The movement of his hand was quicker now, more expansive, as if he had inserted another two fingers and was steadily opening himself up. With his other hand, he pushed his balls out of the way, then carefully and very slowly - Fingolfin put a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from crying out in mingled arousal and worry - turned his cock downward and pressed it into his own hole. 

The noise that Fingolfin could not stop himself from making then was drowned out by the moan of unmistakable pleasure that Fëanor made. Without entirely meaning to, Fingolfin found himself shifting a little, the better to see what Fëanor was doing. His eyes were closed and his hands carefully worked his cock in and out of his hole, the wet slick sounds utterly enticing in their obscenity. From this slightly different angle, Fingolfin could see Fëanor's cock pumping in and out of himself, until at last it was clearly too much to bear, and Fëanor's thighs trembled as he came hard inside himself. 

Fingolfin wanted to cast aside his clothing then and there, and just press inside Fëanor like that, on his back with his legs sprawled, weak in the aftermath of release, hands falling away and cock springing free. He put his hand over his own mouth instead. He should get up and leave, let Fëanor do what he needed to do. He was clearly in the grip of that pollen, which must have lustful properties. He was not himself. 

Trembling, Fingolfin started to turn to get up, but was restrained by Fëanor's voice. "It's not enough, Nolo," he said. "Still not enough." Fingolfin turned back, and indeed Fëanor's cock hadn't gone down at all, despite the white streaks of come trickling out of his hole. "It must be that I need...someone else to satisfy this." 

"There is no one else," Fingolfin said, voice shaking. "I - you can't mean - we -" His objections devolved into stammered words and he looked around again, half-hoping that there was someone else nearby, and half-hoping not. 

"Don't be dull-witted, Nolo, it doesn't become you," Fëanor said, and his voice was brisk and practical. "Of course I mean you." 

Fingolfin moved back a little, shaking his head in shock. 

"Nolo, please," Fëanor said, voice on the edge of desperation, or exasperation, Fingolfin wasn't sure quite which. "It's not wrong to help someone who is clearly in need. Will you make me beg that of you, will you require me to sink that low before you aid me as I do plainly require?"

Fingolfin could not resist sliding a trembling hand along Fëanor's leg up to his knee. It was a beautiful leg: finely moulded, well muscled, every curve clear in the light of Laurelin. And what lay between Fëanor's legs was even more enticing: the proud jut of his cock, the soft swell of his buttocks, and the pink hole, exposed and puffy, that lay between, as if it longed for someone - him - to move forward into position between Fëanor's legs and press his own hard cock inside. 

"What would Nerdanel say?" he found himself asking instead. Fëanor sighed and this time it was definitely in exasperation. 

"She would care only that I did what needed to be done," he answered. "She will not resent you; she's not prone to jealousy." 

"Such things are generally reserved only for the marriage bed," Fingolfin said weakly. "I have never -" he blushed hotly "- touched another in the way you are asking me to touch you." 

A spark of something akin to affection sprang up in Fëanor's eyes; he sighed, placing his hand - it was damp with various fluids but Fingolfin did not care about that and only appreciated the gesture - over Fingolfin's. "For that, I am truly sorry," he said. "That this should be your first introduction - it's not as I or you would have it - but it is as it must be." He took a deep breath, sliding his hand up and down his cock slowly, meditatively. "Or would you leave me to suffer? I know you well enough to know you are not cruel, brother." 

It was that 'brother' which softened Fingolfin, knowing he was being manipulated but enjoying hearing that long-desired word from Fëanor's lips too much to care. He flung himself down beside Fëanor. "How may I aid you?" He asked. 

"Take your clothes off first," Fëanor said. His own hand on himself was moving faster now, and his cock was leaking clear fluid from the head. 

Fingolfin hastened to obey. It was but the work of a moment to drag his tunic off over his head, tug his boots off, and finally lift his hips and shove his trousers down and off, laying his clothes aside with far less care than he had given to Fëanor's. 

Fëanor took a moment just to look at him, once he was fully nude, hand still stroking himself. "You have truly grown up," he said, raising an eyebrow at the prominent erection that jutted from Fingolfin's body. 

Fingolfin's face went hot, but he said nothing to that, curling in beside Fëanor and raising a hand as if to send it dancing over his skin. "Where...?" he began. 

"Anywhere," Fëanor said breathlessly, and so Fingolfin let his fingers trail lightly over Fëanor's chest. Fëanor arched into his touch like someone starving for it, like one of the palace cats that Fingolfin loved to pet. His hand whispered over the hard nub of one of Fëanor's nipples and Fëanor drew in a sharp breath, almost as though the touch was hurting him. When Fingolfin made to draw back, Fëanor shook his head. "No, no," he said. "Keep touching me there. Put your mouth on me. Anything." He was out of breath, hips thrusting into his own hand, clearly close once more. 

Fingolfin bent and closed his mouth over the hard nipple. By sheer instinct he began to suck at it, and Fëanor's groan was enough to keep him doing it over and over in warm long pulls. Fëanor's free hand slipped into his hair and he pressed Fingolfin down, urging him silently to suck harder and harder. 

After a moment, Fëanor came with a long drawn out groan, sinking back into the blanket wearily. Fingolfin let the nipple slip from his mouth, but nuzzled at it softly, curling up against Fëanor. They lay there together for several long moments, listening to the distant birdsong, Fëanor's breathing slowly becoming calmer. 

"Do you think that's enough to satisfy you?" Fingolfin said, half-hoping the answer would be 'no', trying not to reach down and adjust his own arousal. 

Fëanor turned to him, a playful smile on his face. "Do I seem to be one who would be satisfied so easily?" he asked. Fingolfin ducked his head, trying to hide his smile. Fëanor reached across - his hand dripping semen - and pulled Fingolfin closer. "I should, perhaps, have done this first," he said, and brought his mouth to meet Fingolfin's. 

The kiss, Fingolfin's first, was a revelation. Fëanor's lips on his were soft and warm, his mouth inviting. His tongue slipped carefully between Fingolfin's lips to brush against his own, and Fingolfin found himself moaning into Fëanor's mouth, aching for more. Without even thinking about it he tucked himself in closer to Fëanor, now slowly grinding against his hip. 

He could feel Fëanor's smile against his mouth before he even broke the kiss. "Will you take me now?" Fëanor said. "I will instruct you carefully." 

Fingolfin nodded, feeling warm all over at the thought of it, and moved to kneel between Fëanor's legs. Fëanor was hard again, and Fingolfin spared a moment to trace lightly up his cock with a finger, not bothering to suppress his smile when Fëanor groaned at the sensation. He was ecstatic all over at the thought of bringing Fëanor to pleasure. 

The pot of salve was lying on the blanket, and Fingolfin scooped a little into his hand, as he had seen Fëanor do earlier. Fëanor reached down and took his hand, encouraging him to run it along his own length, and the remnants along Fëanor's. "Just do it," he said. "I need no further preparation." Fingolfin took a deep breath, found the best position to enter him, fumbling a little, and finally pushed inside. 

The heat of him was glorious, breathtaking. Fingolfin bent his head to rest against Fëanor's collarbone, trembling, desperate to move yet fearing it would all be over in short order if he did. Beneath him Fëanor too was shaking, as if from holding back on something he had been suppressing for just a shade too long. 

"You feel so good," Fingolfin could not keep himself from saying. I didn't think anything could possibly ever feel this good, he added silently, and the thought that it might get even better nearly destroyed him. 

"Move," Fëanor said, half begging, half a snarled order, and Fingolfin obeyed. He was so smooth and slick that it was effortless, the way eased by Fëanor's fingers earlier, along with the salve and semen. 

Fëanor seemed to relax a little when Fingolfin began thrusting, letting his head drop back, panting. Fingolfin, bent over him, laid some quick kisses to his throat, and when Fëanor gasped breathlessly at that, did it again, warmer, longer, open-mouthed and hungry. 

Strange as it was to say, he had almost forgotten about his own arousal in the pleasure of watching Fëanor's ratchet up. Fumbling, he reached for Fëanor's cock, palmed it warmly, touching him like he would have touched himself, pulling in long steady strokes. 

His hips seemed to be moving on their own, pumping into Fëanor. Fëanor was moaning breathlessly, head tipped back so far that Fingolfin could hardly see his face. He wanted more than anything to kiss Fëanor again, and brought his free hand up, wrapping it around his shoulders to raise him a little so they could kiss. It was awkward but Fëanor responded warmly, sighing into his mouth, wrapping his own arms around Fingolfin's neck. For a moment they were perfectly in sync, moving together, and it was so incredible that Fingolfin forgot to wonder how anything could be this good, and just existed in the moment, relishing the pleasure of it beyond anything he had ever known. 

Fëanor came first, gasping into Fingolfin's mouth, spilling over Fingolfin's hand, but Fingolfin was quick to follow, unable to contain himself at the feel of Fëanor tightening around him. They collapsed down into the blankets together, Fingolfin pressing kiss after quick kiss to Fëanor's warm mouth. He could not bear to leave him, so stayed inside, wondering if it would be possible to fuck him again in a moment. 

"I need more," Fëanor breathed. Fingolfin gave a quick thrust of his hips, and Fëanor smiled, lifting his head to brush his mouth against Fingolfin's. "I wonder if..." Fëanor reached down and took his own erection into his hand, then looked up at Fingolfin. "We'll need more salve for this," he said, and Fingolfin wiped his hand off on the blanket, then reached for it. "Put a little on me, then some on your hand."

Fingolfin did so, and set the salve aside again. At Fëanor's instruction, he pressed one, then two, fingers into Fëanor's hole alongside his own cock, which was rapidly getting hard again at the thought of what they were about to do. At the same time Fëanor carefully slicked his own half-hard cock up and once again moved his balls out of the way, turning his cock downward. As Fingolfin's fingers retreated, Fëanor pushed his own cock into himself beside Fingolfin's. 

The feeling of Fëanor's cock against his own was blindingly arousing; Fingolfin had never become so hard so fast. Gingerly, he thrust into Fëanor, trying to be slow and careful, but then Fëanor's fingers were there, slowly working his cock in and out of himself. His cock slid slickly along Fingolfin's, and Fingolfin gave up trying to move, letting the warmth of Fëanor all around him drag him up to full arousal once more. 

Fëanor, panting with effort, half raised onto one elbow, thrusting harder. After a moment, Fingolfin caught the rhythm of it and began to move too, watching Fëanor's face as he did so, the lip he was biting in concentration, the furrowed brow, checking for any signs of pain or distress. But Fëanor seemed to be entirely enjoying it, giving himself over to it like he did at the forge or at his desk, as if each stroke was a blow of his hammer or a word from his pen. 

At one point Fëanor looked up to catch Fingolfin watching him, and gave him a quick, odd, almost tender look, as though they were doing far more than just satisfying a need. Fingolfin took a breath at that, all the old hero-worship and restrained affection welling up inside him from out of nowhere, and he almost leaned forward to whisper something sweet into Fëanor's ear - what it would have been, he wasn't sure. But before he could, Fëanor suddenly let go of his own cock, brought his hands up and pushed Fingolfin over onto his back, smoothly on top of him now. His hands immediately went back between his legs, carefully continuing to hold them both to a slow and steady pace.

Fingolfin could not help but cry out. This was so much deeper, so much more intense, with Fëanor's entire weight bringing them together. A wild laughing light in his eyes, Fëanor rose and fell on top of him, his hair falling down so far it tickled Fingolfin's thighs. Fingolfin, not to be passive, raised a hand, reached for one of Fëanor's nipples and pulled at it, not lightly, twisting a little. 

It was Fëanor's turn to cry out then, and the look he gave Fingolfin was distinctly impressed and pleased. Fingolfin kept doing it, first to one nipple, then the other, and every time Fëanor cried out. After a little while, Fingolfin could feel the hot rush of his release spilling inside him, so warm and wonderful that Fingolfin could not help but follow. 

Fëanor slid off him after a moment, and collapsed half on top of him, half on top of the blanket. Still somewhat overwhelmed with pleasure, Fingolfin eased him down, and Fëanor curled up against him. They were both sticky, covered with seed and the remnants of the salve, but Fingolfin could not bring himself to care. For a long moment, they dozed together in the warm light. 

It was a subtle change of the light which signalled the very beginning of the Mingling that roused Fëanor again; he rolled over onto his back, ignoring the erection that was still steadfast, and looked up at the sky. 

"Soon it will be dark enough?" Fingolfin said, trying to catch Fëanor's thoughts. 

"Yes," Fëanor said thoughtfully. And then, as if half to himself, "Light! The purpose of our quest, after all." He wiped his hands on the blanket, making a face at the fluids which covered them. 

"When we have the Trees," Fingolfin said, "why do you seek other sources of light?" 

Fëanor suddenly turned toward him again, propping himself up on on one elbow and giving Fingolfin a keen, delighted smile. It was the first time in their journey that Fingolfin had asked a question of his own, rather than just pretending to pay attention to what Fëanor was saying, and the difference in the emotion between their earlier interactions and this could not be more stark. 

Laying a hand on Fingolfin's shoulder, Fëanor pressed close, so that their bodies were aligned, sharing their warmth. "I don't understand light," he said. "And I greatly desire to. For there are lands beyond our own, as you know, those from which Father came long ago, and they do not have the light of the Trees." He took a deep breath. "Father told me of Elwë, who was his friend, and who disappeared in the wilds of Middle-earth, who he had to leave behind." 

Fingolfin looked puzzled; Finwë had never told him any such tale, but quickly nodded, indicating that Fëanor should go on. 

"Father believes that Elwë was not taken by any Dark Rider, as so many of our people were, and will someday found a great kingdom in those lands across the sea. Perhaps he has already done so." Fëanor breathed in, and gave Fingolfin a smile that was almost tentative. "It is my hope that I will one day understand the intricacies of light itself, that I may put light into a vessel, yes, even the light of the Trees! This," - he gestured, taking in the forest around them and their journey to it - "is but the practice, the beginning. Perhaps one day I may invent some device that will allow me speak to him across the Sea. Or perhaps I will one day travel to Middle-earth, and there say to Elwë, 'Behold! I am the son of your friend who loved you, and in my hand I bring to you Light! My gift to you is the Light of the Two Trees themselves, a gift to be shared with all in Middle-earth and not as the Valar would wish it, kept for Aman alone.'" 

Fëanor's eyes were sparkling and his voice was filled with fervour, bright and warm. "But that is for the future. This is merely fire in a flask, a lamp, if I can accomplish it." He let go of Fingolfin's shoulder and raised a hand to his hair instead, absently petting it softly, winding his fingers in the dark locks. 

Fingolfin smiled. "So the heart of your true study is light then?" Fëanor's hand in his hair sent shivers of delight through him and he dropped his head a little, the better to allow Fëanor access, and let his own free hand wander over the curves and angles of Fëanor's back, lightly caressing. 

"Yes, of course," Fëanor answered. "For what in all creation is deeper than the Music itself?" He twisted a lock of Fingolfin's hair around his fingers, then brought it to his lips, kissing the hair briefly. 

"I did not think there was anything deeper than Music," Fingolfin said. "Music is how the world was formed." He let his fingers dance over Fëanor's back, as if to illustrate his point, and Fëanor gave the faintest suggestion of a gasp at the light caresses. 

"Not by Music alone," Fëanor said, smiling. "For the Flame Imperishable, the Secret Fire - light in its purest form - dwells at the heart of this world and no darkness can touch it, no evil abides it. The Trees are a visible manifestation of the smallest part of it, raised up by Yavanna's Song and Nienna's tears. And yet they are not enough. I wish to bring light into the darkness. Light should be shared with all, not only those lucky enough to live in Aman." 

The Mingling, the most beautiful time of day, was now upon them, and Fëanor in the light of it was utterly breathtaking. Fingolfin could not bring himself to speak but leaned forward and kissed Fëanor warmly, trying to convey how much Fëanor's words had stirred him. He felt as one new-awakened, pulled out of dreams into the light, and could not help but stand blinking at it, overwhelmed. 

One question occurred to him, and when he drew back, he asked it. "What of the Tengwar, then? Why that?" 

Fëanor let go of Fingolfin's hair and trailed his hand down Fingolfin's side tenderly, a bright smile on his face. "Because, Nolo," he said, "words too are light given form. The Flame Imperishable does not only dwell at the heart of the world, it dwells in us. Can you not see it burning in my eyes, as I can see it in yours?" 

"I can see it," Fingolfin murmured, unable to keep from kissing Fëanor again. He was trembling on the verge of confessing the feelings that had been building within him for years, and to stop himself, slid his hand down Fëanor's body, not too surprised to find his cock still hard. Fëanor gasped at the contact, mostly in pleasure, with a hint of pain behind it. 

"Will you take me this time?" Fingolfin asked. He lay back, spreading his legs, drawing his knees up. 

For answer, Fëanor reached for the salve. "I will not take you unready," he said when Fingolfin made a faint sound of protest. Fëanor did not press fingers in at first, but bent forward and licked Fingolfin, sliding his tongue wetly down from just behind Fingolfin's balls to his opening. Fingolfin, half-hard, could feel arousal rising in him as Fëanor licked all around his entrance, and finally pressed his tongue inside, just for a moment. Bright stars seemed to explode behind Fingolfin's eyelids and he wondered if he could hold out long enough against such pleasure. 

But after a moment, Fëanor drew back, taking some of the salve on his fingers and pressing into him with first one finger, then a second, sliding them in and out in a mimicry of sex. This was less intense than Fëanor's mouth on him had been, and Fingolfin relaxed into it, willing himself to open up for Fëanor. 

Yet Fëanor was clearly near the point of being overwhelmed just from sliding his fingers in Fingolfin, breath coming in harsh pants, faint breathless whispers of how tight and hot Fingolfin was escaping his lips. He withdrew his fingers, but at last, as Fëanor was sliding the last of the salve over his own cock to slick it up, he gave a sharp helpless gasp and came, spurting hotly over Fingolfin, shaking with the force of it. 

They exchanged a wordless glance, half an apology on Fëanor's face, but Fëanor was still hard and it was but the work of a moment after that to enter Fingolfin, slow and careful. 

Fëanor was just entering him, only the head of his cock inside Fingolfin, when he cried out, high and breathless once more like he was at the point of orgasm again. "I can't hold on," he gasped. "You're so tight, so hot - I'm going to...."

He trailed off, unable to speak, but Fingolfin wrapped his arms around him, and dragged him down so they could kiss, knowing where Fëanor's mouth had just been and simply not caring. "Then don't," he whispered just before their lips met. Fëanor came a second time in as many minutes, hips jerking wildly, and Fingolfin surged upward, trying to meet him, trying to take him deeper, acutely aware of every pulse of seed from him. 

"Once again, I...." Fëanor seemed at a loss for words, but gathered himself together after a moment. "This is not what you would have preferred for your first time, I know." 

Fingolfin couldn't resist the urge to play a little. "You can make it up to me now, if you will." He pressed a kiss to Fëanor's lips and moved his hips upward, making his meaning clear. Fëanor smiled and pushed further into him, still as hard as if his previous orgasms - Fingolfin had lost count of how many by this point - hadn't happened at all. 

Fëanor wrapped a hand around Fingolfin's cock, and slowly thrust into him, keeping his strokes in time so that Fingolfin was drawn again and again to the point of being overwhelmed by sensation. He seemed less hurried this time, more willing to draw it out, more able to pay attention to Fingolfin's cries and the expressions that crossed his face. 

His thrusts were slow and shallow at first, as Fingolfin adjusted to the feel of Fëanor inside of him. After a moment of this, just as Fingolfin was beginning to think about asking for 'more' and 'harder,' Fëanor touched something inside of him that sent sparks through his mind and liquified his thoughts into an overwhelming sensation of pure pleasure. His head fell back and he let out a loud moan. 

Fëanor's smile was something Fingolfin felt more than saw, and he immediately picked up the pace, thrusting steadily, continuing to stroke Fingolfin's cock at a similar pace. 

"Please," he found he was begging after a while, loudly and without shame. "Please make me come." Confused promises and pleas fell from his lips, and Fingolfin could hear Fëanor's own incoherent breathless gasps and moans. As the last of Laurelin's light faded from the sky, silver light swept over them, and Fingolfin opened his eyes to see Fëanor above him, pounding into him, coaxing him to come, outlined in the dim silver light, shining like one of the Valar themselves. 

He spilled with Fëanor's name on his lips, urgent and desperate, and Fëanor followed him down after a last powerful thrust, holding still with eyes wide as he came harder than he had at any other point that day. 

Fingolfin gently brought him down to lie next to him, their arms around each other. At some point, Fëanor slipped out of him, his erection finally going down. For a long time, they lay together on the blanket - now sticky and soiled - under the silver sky, and Fingolfin thought delightedly of nothing but the beating of their hearts together. 

Fëanor was the first to sit up. He did so with a painful groan that almost immediately turned into an cry of excitement. Fingolfin raised his head and looked in the direction that Fëanor was gazing in - away to the west of where they had been looking earlier, a white glow was rising eerily among the dark shapes of trees. 

"We've found them, Nolo!" Fëanor said eagerly. 

"I'm just glad they're not near that other plant," Fingolfin said with a smile, drawing a hand down Fëanor's leg warmly. "And yet, I am glad of that plant," he added, a laugh hovering about his lips, his heart suddenly pounding hard in his breast. Now, now, was the dangerous moment. It had to be said now, or never. "I love you, Fëanáro." The words came out all in a rush, breathless and passionate, and he couldn't bear to look at Fëanor. 

Fëanor turned back toward him swiftly, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Nolo," he said kindly - more kindly than he had said anything else that day - "of course you don't. Not in the way you mean just now, at least." 

"I do," Fingolfin said. "How could I not? I've loved you for years." 

"This often happens," Fëanor said calmly, almost for once sounding like the elder brother that he actually was. "You make love with someone, especially when it's your first time, and it overwhelms you a little with pleasant feelings, and you mistake them for love. But it isn't love. It will fade in time, naturally, and you will go on to find the one who will be your real love, when the time is right." 

Fingolfin shook his head, swallowing thickly, biting back the tears that threatened to well up. "You're wrong," he said very softly. 

Fëanor laughed, lighthearted and teasing. "Oh, Nolo! Haven't you learned yet? I'm never wrong!" He pressed a kiss to Fingolfin's forehead, and rose to his feet, turning to find his clothes. Fingolfin stared after him in silent shock. His chest ached, a choking knot filled his throat, and tears threatened to fill his eyes but were burnt away before they could escape. 

Picking up the bundle of his clothing and his boots, Fëanor made his way toward the sound of running water as Fingolfin lay still on the soiled blanket. His mind was whirling, and slowly he began to untangle it. He loved Fëanor - that was the unchangeable, undeniable truth of it. Fëanor did not love him - that too was clear. 

"What were you hoping for?" he whispered furiously to himself. "Things are as they are. You dared to hope for flame itself, but all you got was a spark." Yet, another part of himself spoke then, brightly teasing. "A spark maybe, or perhaps a fire in a flask, a lamp to light your way?" 

Laughing helplessly at himself, he stood up, gathering up the small pot of salve and inhaling, for a moment, the refreshing scent that would forever after make him think of only this day. And for all the blanket was completely ruined, he folded it carefully and packed it away, giving it a sentimental pat before turning to gather his clothes and join Fëanor in the cold running water.


End file.
